


The Stuff of Dreams

by UP2L8



Series: Sex Shop AU [15]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Child Death, M/M, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 02:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20350597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UP2L8/pseuds/UP2L8
Summary: It had been a few months since last he’d had a nightmare this bad. Roy had hoped Edward would not have to witness how he struggled with his subconscious demons.





	The Stuff of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings. Further warnings for past violence and death. If angst is not what you’re here for, give this a miss.

The sun at high noon in a cloudless sky washed out any hint of colour in the landscape as far as the eye could see. Sand and destruction stretched to the horizon in every direction. Heat pressed against him, wrapping him like a heavy blanket, bowing his shoulders. Plumes of thick black smoke twisted into the sky. The scent of cordite and pulverized stone hung in the air, while the desperate cries of the injured, men, women, and children, assaulted him like physical blows. Soldiers were creeping over the rubble like flies on a rotting carcass. 

“Colonel, we have to go!” Hawkeye was dragging at his arm. 

“Where’s Havoc? Where’s Murray? What . . .” Roy spun around, boots crunching up a spray of loose gravel. 

Hawkeye was gone. The soldiers continued their slow crawl through the corpse of the town. Roy had scavenging of his own to do, and never mind the battlefield setting claws deep, rending his soul. He had to keep moving. 

He scanned the rough terrain as he walked aimless, eyes intent on the ruins of what was once a living, breathing community, searching for any movement, any sign. The small stone house suddenly before him was partly collapsed, leaning at a steep angle. It was the only structure still mostly intact in a vast sea of devastation. The door hung open on one hinge. Inside was pitch black, the searing brightness of the day smothered beyond the jamb. Roy moved forward, drawn to it. He gripped the door frame and leaned in. 

Havoc was face down on the floor by a smoldering cookfire, still, a black mere slowly spreading around him. The smell of blood and burned flesh was thick, choking off the whine buzzing low in Roy’s throat. Movement in the dark drew his eye, but he already knew what lurked out of sight. His weapon snapped up, out of his control. 

His finger tightened on the trigger and his weapon discharged as something hot punched through him once, twice. Staggering backward out into the sun, his semiautomatic discharged twice more, his finger twitching in reflex on the trigger. 

The sound of the shots echoed off into the distance as Roy struggled to his feet. His left side was already soaked with his blood, hotter than the heavy air; he knew it wouldn’t be long before his life bled away and his vision faded to black. He staggered back into the dark, gun gripped tight in his hand. He dropped to his knees at Havoc’s side. 

Rolling his friend over, it was clear that there was nothing he could do for him; glazed blue eyes stared sightless at the dying cookfire. Grief welled up, clogging his throat and he turned his eyes aside. 

To catch on the enemy crumpled against the wall in the shadows. 

She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. The rifle lay askew across her skinny knees, the stock still clutched in her hand. Her single remaining eye was wide with surprise, her reaction to Roy’s return fire drilling through the other. Beside her, huddled on the ground was another, younger child. This little one had died days ago. Roy was not to blame for his death. 

And at the same time, he undeniably was. 

He fell to his knees, gun dropping from his hand, holding back the sob bulging in his throat. They had come here to _help_. 

_“Roy.”_

How could any sane human being believe that _soldiers_ could help _anyone_? 

_“Roy. Wake up.”_

They were nothing more than power demonstrated, expendable muscles flexed by people far removed from the violence they commanded. 

_“Roy. Wake up. You’re safe.”_

The taste of sand and iron faded with the grit between his teeth. The hard-packed dirt of the floor softened by slow degrees. It was still dark, but something cool was pressing lightly against his sweat damp forehead. He was on his back, in his own bed. Roy looked up into concerned golden eyes. 

“Roy. Are you with me?” 

Edward. His hand moved from Roy’s brow to his cheek, soothing, and then withdrew. Roy wanted to curl away from his concern. He did not deserve it. 

“I’m- awake.” His voice sounded perfectly composed; a small miracle. 

It had been a few months since last he’d had a nightmare this bad. Roy had hoped Edward would not have to witness how he struggled with his subconscious demons. A foolish hope. 

They had fallen into a routine of sorts. Dinner every few days, then Roy’s place for desert. Quiet conversation, gaining deeper intimacy. More often than not, sex and a shower. Sometimes, like tonight, Roy was able to convince Edward to stay. He found he slept more soundly when Ed was there beside him. 

He should have known that this was inevitable. 

“Nightmare.” Edward said. Not a question. 

“Yes.” 

The younger man held his gaze steady for a moment more, then lay down again leaving some space between them. His hand brushed Roy’s; contact freely offered without pressure. Roy assessed his mental state and took Ed’s hand, weaving their fingers together. It grounded him in a way he was not expecting. 

And he did not deserve it. 

The fact that Edward wasn’t asking about, well, anything really – and likely would not, now or ever - was irrelevant. This would definitely happen again, and Roy couldn’t help but worry that the longer he put off an explanation, the harder it would be to open up. If their relationship was to progress, it wouldn’t do so in a healthy manner if Roy chose to hide this part of himself. 

Edward deserved to know what he was getting into. 

But Roy was also afraid of the very real possibility that their relationship could come to an end when Edward learned that Roy was nothing more than a smooth talking, carefully crafted veneer disguising a rotting, irredeemable soul. 

He tugged at Ed’s hand until the younger man was arranged with his head on Roy’s shoulder, his hand resting lightly on Roy’s chest. Roy found it easier to begin without Edward’s eyes upon him. 

He would start with the facts. 

“Infantry ground units expect to come under fire from enemy soldiers. It’s no different for ‘peacekeeping’ missions.” Roy couldn’t keep the bitterness at the term from his voice and didn’t try. “Our greatest challenge was identifying the enemy. Most people think of war as a series of battles wherein the enemy can be identified by their uniform, or because they fight on some defined battlefield. When you are on a patrol mission, you are essentially behind enemy lines, and your brothers in arms are the only uniformed soldiers. You can’t tell who the enemy is until they attack, and it could be anyone: people going about their business in a market, someone you pass on a road, a group of women gossiping at a well. Even a child sitting by the roadside might have a grenade handy to toss. You have to be alert and constantly aware of your surroundings.” 

Edward didn’t say anything, just nodded his understanding, and despite the nature of the description, Roy found that speaking about it clinically had a calming effect. His heart rate was almost back to normal, and the tension had eased from his spine. 

“Coming under fire from the enemy is one thing, but friendly fire is a totally different story. You return fire when the enemy is shooting at you, but you don’t want to get into a firefight with your comrades for obvious reasons, and also because you could end up the target of a mortar bombardment or artillery fire. So you take cover until you can identify yourself and convince them to stop shooting at you.” 

Edward hand was resting flat on Roy’s chest, over his heart, warm and comfortable. Roy put his own hand on top of it. 

“I joined the military as an idealist, to serve my country, thinking that as a soldier and an officer I would have the power to shield those who needed protection. My experiences on active duty opened my eyes, and I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. Our so called ‘protection’ was feared and resented by civilians in those countries to which we were deployed. We were a danger to them. The only people I could realistically protect were those under my command, just a handful of men in a sea of casualties.”* 

The ceiling over the bed was comfortably familiar. Roy’s older home was in good repair; nevertheless, there were a few small imperfections here and there. The crack in the corner that vaguely resembled a small salamander always drew his wandering eyes when he lay awake in the night. Sometimes, when reflected sunlight caught it just right, it looked like it was aflame. 

“Military training includes the use of positive psychology to look for the silver lining in challenging situations.” Roy’s chuckle was rueful. “It’s a load of shit. Imaging living in conditions of extreme violence and fear where every day is a brutal lesson in compromised morality. The only silver lining is the hope of making it home, and even that is tarnished black. We were supposed to be there to keep the peace, but what we had to do in order to survive had the opposite effect. As my tour ran its course, I became more disillusioned, more ashamed, more bitter.” 

Roy’s street was a quiet little backwater, for which he was grateful. The backyard beyond the bedroom window was dark; at this hour no lights from the neighbouring homes were visible. He noted that there was no moonlight to soften the darkness either, for which he was also grateful. Some memories were best shared in the dark. 

“I reached my breaking point close to the end of my final deployment. My unit was assigned to sweep a town for enemy activity. The place had already seen combat, but people were still going about their business at makeshift market stalls. They kept an eye on us, and we kept an eye on them; par for the course in a situation of that nature. We were on patrol for about an hour, reaching the centre of town with no sign of hostiles, when we heard a commotion a short distance away. We advanced with caution.” 

Edward’s hair was really quite beautiful. In the near complete darkness of the room it still seemed to glow. It felt like spun silk, soft and smooth. Roy ran gentle fingers through it, memorizing the sensation, then bent his head to take a deep breath of Edward’s scent before he continued. 

“A few bullets buzzed past us, and we took refuge where we could, firing back into the enemy position while calling our Forward Operating Base by radio for further instructions. Then the shooting stopped all at once. I risked a quick look to assess the situation and saw two soldiers running across a narrow alley in clear retreat. I recognized them as part of a recognizance detail from our battalion, and realized we were in a friendly fire situation. I ordered my unit to stand down and called for a quick retreat, because I knew what was coming. Sure enough, we’d barely cleared the area before mortar fire was bombarding the town.” 

Roy muted the sound of sudden, explosive death echoing through his memories by stroking a hand over Edward’s shoulder and down his arm. Warmth seeped from toned muscle into his palm. Edward was good at sharing his warmth with Roy, from the outside, and the inside. 

“By the time we heard back from our FOB it was all over. The town was leveled. There were civilian casualties everywhere.” Roy wiped a shaking hand over his eyes. “Some of my men were missing too, separated when we came under fire.” 

Roy had to force himself to continue. He had told this story before, but never to someone so far removed from the life Roy had survived. The farther he led Ed down this rabbit hole, the harder it got to go on. 

“We went back in.” Roy knew Ed could feel him shaking. “There wasn’t much left, of the town or the people who had lived there. We met up with the recon team. Their commander told me that they thought they had located a cadre of insurgents, and when we showed up, they mistook us for enemy reinforcements. We joined forces to offer what aid we could to the civilians, and to search for our missing comrades.” 

With his head resting on Roy’s shoulder, Edward must have been able to hear how Roy’s heart had begun to pound again. 

“Maes and my First Lieutenant were with me at first. We found a few survivors. Maes stayed with one of our wounded, Riza split off to check a cry for help. I came upon a house that still had four walls and a roof, though it looked unstable. I leaned in to see if anyone was there. I found Havoc, lying on the ground. I didn’t have time to see anything else before I was shot twice.” 

Roy pressed his hand to his midriff, over the scars. “My service pistol was in my hand and I squeezed off three shots almost by reflex. I fell back, hard on my ass and fully expected to be shot dead in the next instant. I wasn’t. Maes and Riza were shouting at me as I crawled back into that house, gun at the ready. I had to see to Havoc.” 

“I also saw who had shot me. Firing blindly, I had still managed to find my target. 

“It was a young girl, Ed, no more than sixteen years old, if that. I had blown her head off.” 

Still no comment from Ed. 

“She was lying beside another child, younger, a boy. The second one had been dead for days judging from the condition of his body. I think,” Roy stopped to swallow back a sob before it could escape, “that she had been protecting her little brother.” 

It took a few moments before Roy could continue. There wasn’t much more to tell, but Roy pressed on, determined to finish. 

“That mission is still classified, but I can tell you that we shouldn’t have been there, and that the details were quietly buried so that important asses were covered. By the time I was debriefed the circumstances didn’t matter to me, because I could no longer ignore the inherent . . . wrongness of what we were doing.” 

Two of Roy’s men had lost their lives that day. Jean had lost the use of his legs, shot in the back while taking cover. The wasted lives on both sides of the battlefield ate at him. 

“That day I vowed never to fight for my country on foreign soil again. I would fight here, because this is where the real fight is. This is where changes have to be made. But real change can only come from the top, from places beyond my ability to climb. So instead, I have made it my duty to expose what those in power hope to hide, to hold them accountable for their decisions and responsible for their actions, both here and abroad. I know that nothing I do now can ever make up for what I did while I was deployed. What I hope to do is prevent others from suffering the same fate as those innocent souls who had the misfortune to come under our country’s protection, and those sent to protect them. 

“That little girl wasn’t the first person I killed, nor was she the last, but she is the one who comes back to remind me of who, and what, I truly am.” 

His story told, Roy readied himself for Ed’s reaction: rejection, or the platitudes generally offered in difficult situations of this nature. By now Roy had dealt with both often enough not to resent them. Negative reactions were, in some ways, easier to take than hollow words of sympathy he didn’t deserve in the first place. Roy understood that people needed to offer reassurance, but some stories were beyond a reasonable response. Thus, stock phrases of commiseration were the only fallback. 

A few moments passed before Edward got up on his knees and positioned himself so that he could look Roy directly in the eye. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. “I love you.” 

It took Roy a moment to understand what Ed had said. 

“I know it’s a weird thing to confess after what you just told me, but I think it’s something you need to hear right now.” Ed pursed his lips and frowned, but his eyes never left Roy’s. “These last few months have been some of the happiest of my life, because you’re in it. Just so you know.” 

Roy felt all the tension bleed out of him, leaving him limp. Something like relief washed over him, leaving him light headed. 

“Thank you,” he managed around the massive lump in his throat. “I . . . thank you.” 

Ed stroked a hand over the scars on Roy’s midriff. “How did you get the burns?” Ed asked. “Unless that’s a story for another time?” 

“The field medic was afraid I would bleed out before I could get to the Forward Surgical Team, so she decided to cauterize the wounds. She used what was at hand.” Roy noted that even in the dark, Ed appeared a little pale. “They told me I was lucky that the bullets passed straight through.” Roy smoothed a palm over his midriff. “Luck is a spectrum, I suppose.” 

Ed hummed his agreement. 

Then he pushed his way back into Roy’s personal space, flopped an arm across his chest, and snuggled in to use Roy’s shoulder as a pillow. 

Roy relaxed completely, warmth unfurling inside him. He had uncovered the worst part of himself, and amazingly, Edward was still here. 

There was nothing Roy could do to change the past. All of the deaths, betrayals, losses, now lived only in his memories, and sometimes he felt like he was drowning, pressed down under their weight. 

But tonight Ed had thrown him a life line, three small words of acceptance. 

Since leaving the military Roy had dedicated his life to his cause. Until Ed, he had set aside his personal desires in pursuit of his goals. Now he not only wanted something – or rather some_one_ \- for himself, but that someone wanted Roy too, just as he was, accepting the good and the bad. As much as Roy felt he didn’t deserve to be loved, Ed felt otherwise.

And suddenly, Roy _wanted_ to deserve him. 

Was this what Maes had been trying to tell him all along? 

* * *

* A direct quote from Fullmetal Alchemist Volume 15, Chapter 61, page 157, Roy Mustang speaking to Maes Hughes.

**Author's Note:**

> Next one nearly done.


End file.
